Forgive Me
by tir-synni
Summary: Would he drench me in blood? Would his touch be cold? His fingers . . . his fingers are always so warm. Knives’ fingers were always so warm, too.’ Vash muses on temptation, forgiveness, and a lost love. WV, KV


Title: Forgive Me  
Author: tir-synni  
Rating: R  
Warnings: Incest (although I doubt Plant incest holds the same implications as human incest), implied sex, blood, and other fun stuff  
A/N: Inspired by the song _What a Mess_ by SR-71. Originally, this was going to be purely a K/V fic, but I couldn't figure out how to do that without a lot of flashbacks. So I tossed Wolfwood into the mix, making it WxV, KxV. The closest thing to love in this fic is KxV, and that's not healthy love going on there, on either side (yes, I do Vash holds believes a rather unhealthy love for Knives, similar to what Knives holds for him, and I'm not talking about the incestuous angle, either). And no, this is not beta'd.  
Addy: relisprince(at)hotmail(dot)com

Harsh sunlight glittered and shattered on blank, golden lens. Dual-colored hair whipped uncaring in the sandy wind. A gloved hand opened a box of donuts, grabbing one at a time, methodically shoveling each glazed circle between compliant lips. Nestled in the relative safety of the sidecar, Vash the Stampede lost himself in thought and mindless motion. He nodded in time to Wolfwood's shouts, uncaring of the tense body beside his right arm, of the white knuckles clutching the bike's handles. The arbitrary clergyman continued badgering him about his inability to drive a bike, his voice a little too loud, a little too high. Those smoky eyes burned him even behind Wolfwood's goggles. Vash never looked up to meet those eyes, those sporadic glances.

Reach into the box–

_"Scrawled across the monument in the central plaza was a man's name. . . . The letters were written in crimson red: Knives."_

–grab a donut–

_"It's you. Very well. Whatever you are planning, you will _not_ interfere with this death match."_

–out of the box.

_"I guess you could say it's an obsession."_

_**Knives.**_

_I confess it's all true  
I'm a mess, what a fool_

After several hours and another box of donuts, the bike finally stuttered to a stop. Wolfwood sighed and watched as the child sun sludged towards the horizon. "Here's as good a place as any," he commented. Slipping from the bike, the priest pocketed his goggles and stretched his legs.

"I don't know," Vash commented cheerfully, "that last sand dune looked pretty good." The blond shot the priest a dazzling, hollow smile. The dark-haired man narrowly suppressed a flinch; Vash flashed his teeth.

"Any place is good as long as you still have that whiskey," Wolfwood retorted, his own smile sharp.

Vash couldn't find it within himself to reply. Instead, he tucked his donuts where he had been sitting. Before he could reach for the Wild Turkey, a strong arm wrapped around his waist. The blond froze.

_Now what_

"You're too slow," Wolfwood murmured in his ear. Vash didn't answered–couldn't even offer a smile–as the terrorist priest pulled out the whiskey bottles.

_do_

Then the arm and the priest slid away, leaving Vash shivering. He pressed his sunglasses closer to his face, bruising the bridge of his nose. Hunching into his red coat, the Humanoid Typhoon followed Wolfwood over to where he was working on a campfire.

_I do?_

Even as Vash plopped beside him, the dark man never looked away from the mounting flames. The blond pretended not to notice when Wolfwood swigged the alcohol so close to the fire. He simply took the whiskey when the other man offered. The aqua eyes never blinked when Wolfwood's fingers brushed against his, nicotine stained tips lingering. Vash drew the bottle away and brought it to his lips; Wolfwood's dark eyes seared him.

'I could do it,' Vash mused idly, tossing back the cheap liquor like it was water, reveling in the liquid fire scorching his throat and chest. 'I could lean right over there and drink the whiskey from his mouth. He would fuck me, and I would let him, and I could enjoy it.'

His hand trembled as he handed the bottle back to Wolfwood. Those smoky eyes hardened on Vash's face; Vash's sunglasses glinted in the flames.

'And he might shove a gun into my hand, ram it against his own forehead, and tell me to take us both out of our misery.'

_I need your help to get up from my knees  
I can't seem to see the forest for the trees  
As I wait in my silent misery  
All I'm asking is please . . . forgive me_

Sucking in a deep breath, the gunman stared into the flames. Wolfwood's gaze lingered on him still, hotter than the fire and chilling his spine. Cigarette smoke irritated his nose: When had Wolfwood lit a cigarette? When had he retrieved one? Vash closed his eyes for a moment, steadying his nerves. His mouth was dry. His palms smarted. Without looking, he snatched another bottle of Wild Turkey from the bag. Uncaring of Wolfwood's tentatively proffered bottle, he swigged his own bottle hard. The liquid blazed a trail down his throat, and tears stung Vash's eyes. He didn't bother blaming it on the alcohol.

'If I let him fuck me,' he thought deliriously, tossing the liquor back again, 'would it be like the first time? It's been so long. Would he drench me in blood? Would his touch be cold? His fingers . . . his fingers are always so warm. Knives' fingers were always so warm, too.'

Vertigo swamped Vash for a moment, and he noted faintly that the bottle was empty. Oh well. He reached for another.

_Now (he) knows me  
(He) wants me to be  
Someone I can't be  
. . . and (he) wants me  
. . . and (he) needs me  
. . . and (he) wants me  
Because (he) loves me_

Wolfwood grabbed Vash's left hand before it could reach the next bottle. Vash shuddered, ripping his hand free of Wolfwood's grasp. The other man froze; his dark eyes never wavered from Vash's tense figure. The aqua eyes stared blankly at the faithless extremity Wolfwood had clutched. He dared not look at the hand with which Wolfwood had touched him, instead fingering the icy metal of his left limb.

In the dark, those dissecting eyes felt too much like Knives', and why, why did everything lead back to Knives in the end? Even the drinks he took were nothing more than an escape. Not from the carnage Knives wreaked now but from the obsessive embraces a younger, barely saner Knives had given so long ago, before the memory of caresses and sweat and cum had been completely overridden by punches and blood and tears. Some part of Vash feared Knives even had a part in the deformity that now marred his left side.

But did it matter? That being was long gone, as was the being who had arched so eagerly into those amorous embraces. Now only an icy, genocidal killer and a scarred, notorious gunman remained, one who desired death and destruction and the other desiring the arms of an unholy priest who was probably leading him to his own purgatory.

Yet . . . some part of Vash believed those neurotic affections would return, if only Vash went back to Knives. If Vash returned willingly, he need not fear punishment, recrimination. His brother would welcome him with open arms.

'Because he loves me,' Vash reflected dizzily.

_SHATTERED_

Then Wolfwood's hand was tight on Vash's jaw, his other hand tossing his cigarette into the sand before tearing the sunglasses from Vash's face. The firelight shone in the other man's eyes, making them impossible to read as the priest soundlessly wiped away Vash's tears. Vash's breath caught. In that moment, he remembered why he trusted this dark priest, why this man charged him, why he left his beloved all those years ago in one brilliant, hopeless, reckless stand.

_Now you see inside  
I no longer hide  
Or fall between the cracks you left behind  
Shattered, now you're out of time  
You've come this far to be denied_

Wolfwood's arms were wrapped around him, his lips parted in silent invitation. Vash licked his own lips. His ticket to the future was always blank. In the time Knives had been gathering his strength and his followers, Vash had made himself anew. The victim who had wept when Knives kicked him in the face had died in the unforgiving sands of Gunsmoke.

Vash the Stampede leaned forward and claimed those thin lips for his own.

_What a shame, I'm to blame_

As Vash tossed his head back and howled in ecstasy, something died in his heart. Wolfwood clutched him tighter. The gunman stared at the hole in the fifth moon, and the tears stopped falling.

And the child that was still Knives wept in his stead.


End file.
